


Words Are All I Have

by twilightshadow



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Piningjolras, like seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:15:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightshadow/pseuds/twilightshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not quite sure how it happens. One day he just starts...seeing him. </p><p>Or, in which Enjolras pines, Grantaire is oblivious, and Combeferre seriously considers putting his head through a wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a song called "Words" and I apologise, dear readers, but I cannot for the life of me remember who it's by. But the line goes "Its only words/And words are all I have/To steal your heart away."
> 
> EDIT: The lovely poesidone has informed me that it is by the BeeGees, so thank you, kind person =D xx
> 
> Also I have major amounts of love for the Bahorel/Feuilly ship. And for Courfeyrac/Jehan. They're not the focus of this though so I haven't tagged them. There will be allusions to both throughout.

He’s not sure how, or when, or why it starts. One day he just starts… _seeing_ him.

And after that it’s impossible not to see him. Grantaire goes, in Enjolras’ eyes, from being simply the drunk cynic in the corner to something else entirely.

Grantaire himself is oblivious to this change. His arguments are no less irritating, his behaviour once past a certain threshold of drunkenness no less hooligan-ish. He continues being simply the drunk cynic in the corner. But Enjolras feels his attention more keenly than he did before.

Enjolras is not pining.

Enjolras _does not pine._

And he certainly isn’t bothered by Courfeyrac running his long fingers through Grantaire’s curls, Grantaire swatting at him and laughing lightly.

Because that’s what oblivious Courfeyrac does. He flirts with anything that moves, which happens to include a slightly tipsy, raven-curled cynic.

It’s also what pretty Jehan does, gives Grantaire a light peck on the cheek when he compliments his latest poem, and tries not to watch Courfeyrac.

 Enjolras catches himself wondering what Grantaire’s stubble would feel like against his own lips.

Nope. He’s not bothered at all.

Combeferre nudges him. “Hey. You ok?”

“What? Oh…fine…” He turns his attention, for the first time with some difficulty, to the laptop before him.

They’re researching sweatshops this month. It’s time consuming because there’s simply so much information to sift through, but it’s the kind of work Enjolras loves.

Even so, ignoring the tug of his eyes towards Grantaire’s corner becomes hard to the point of impossible after around half an hour. Feuilly’s doing an impression of somebody and they’re all laughing. He tries to pretend it’s that that’s distracting, as opposed to the way the laughter brings a healthy flush to R’s pale face and puts a shine in eyes that shouldn’t be blurred by alcohol and _mon Dieu, Enjolras, stop thinking._

Grantaire leaves early to go and pick up Gavroche and Azelma for Eponine, working late. The café is quieter and emptier without him, and not just because the raucous laughter in the corner has settled.

Courfeyrac slumps into the chair opposite Combeferre. “So…how’s it coming along?”

“Slowly,” the bespectacled student replies. “Sometimes it’s hard to know what’s bullshit conspiracy theory and what’s genuine.”

“Let me have a look.” Courfeyrac usurps the laptop and starts scrolling. Enjolras and Combeferre let him. The man is a little crazy but his bullshit detector is brilliant.

Unfortunately, this leaves Enjolras with very little to do but brood, and his brooding, of late, always leads him back to Grantaire. He pulls out one of his History textbooks and plunges into it to take his mind off things. He notices Courfeyrac eyeing him suspiciously but it’s normal enough behaviour for him to say nothing.

He hates being this distracted. Only last week, his cause would have been enough to wrestle his attention away from blue eyes and paint-stained t-shirts. It’s getting out of hand.

Enjolras is acutely aware that he should really talk to Grantaire about this…but what the hell does one say in that situation?

Courfeyrac bangs the laptop closed. “Ok, Enjolras, what’s up?”

“What should be up?”

“Oh, I don’t know, your blood? You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying, have you? I just reeled off some facts and figures which ought to have you foaming at the mouth but you’ve not even acknowledged them. What’s the matter?”

Enjolras glances around involuntarily. The café is quiet. Over the last half an hour most of Les Amis have drifted away, to night jobs or to find food or go home to bed. It’s just the three of them left, and Bossuet and Joly’s girlfriend Musichetta who is wiping down tables, closing up around them.

Even Combeferre looks concerned. “He’s right. I’ve never seen you less engaged with something.”

And now his two oldest friends are ganging up on him. Enjolras sighs and scrubs and hand through his cropped curls. There will be no getting out of this. Courfeyrac is like an irritating pitbull terrier and Combeferre could win a patience contest against a Buddhist monk.

“If, hypothetically…” he begins slowly, “…you thought you might like someone…I mean in the sense of like-liking them…how…I mean, what would you do about it?”

Combeferre ignores the grin spreading across Courfeyrac’s face. “Speaking hypothetically, of course, I would start by examining what you would want from a shift in your relationship with them. Then…still speaking hypothetically, I would ask myself if it was best for both the people concerned if the relationship were to move to another level. Just because one person desires it doesn’t mean it’s the right course of action.”

Enjolras knows that he knows, and also knows that he knows who it is. Courfeyrac may be good at reading between the lines but Enjolras can read most of the human race like a book. It’s what makes him such a good public speaker. He can anticipate what a crowd needs to stir it to action.

Courfeyrac himself looks fit to burst. “You have a crush!” he hoots. “Oh my God, stop the presses, our chronically chaste leader has a crush! I bet I can guess who it is. Hope it isn’t Feuilly, Bahorel will gut you. Is it me? I bet it’s me.”

Combeferre looks as though he’s chocking back hysterics. Enjolras covers his eyes with one hand. “No, Courfeyrac, it isn’t you.”

“HA! SO IT IS ONE OF US!” Courfeyrac crows.

Enjolras decides he seriously needs new friends.  


	2. Part 2

Grantaire is happily oblivious to the turmoil of his _object du desire._ He’s too busy dealing with a devilishly smart ten-year old winding up a moody sixteen year old.

“Gav, oh my God, stop it! Give it back!”

“T’ain’t even yours, Parnasse nicked it weeks back. Then you nicked it off him.” Gavroche refuses to relinquish the iPhone.

 “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Grantaire says from the driver’s seat. “Seriously, no murders over technology in the car, I’m not being held responsible.”

“Hey, Zelma, why is this one labelled - ”

Azelma lunges across the back seat and wrests the phone of her brother’s hand. He can’t retaliate as they pull up outside Eponine’s run-down apartment block and his sister dives out of the car.

Grantaire turns to Gavroche. “Get on up, you brat.”

“Aren’t you coming too?”

“In a second. Gonna park this properly.”

Gav nods and follows his sister into the block.

Grantaire pulls out from the curb and drives around the corner to where he knows there is on-street parking. It’s not the nicest neighbourhood but there is at least a 60% chance that the security cameras work. Besides, he knows Eponine finishes her shift in half an hour. It’ll survive until then, he hopes.

He’s just turned off the engine and stepped out of his battered old car when three shadows detach themselves from a nearby alley and circle him before he realises what has happened.

He vaguely recognises some cronies of Montparnasse, Eponine’s sometimes lover and all-time irritation, and knows he’s landed himself in trouble.

“Evening, _monsieurs._ ” He feigns nonchalance over his rapidly climbing pulse. “What can I do for you?”

“You can start by turning your pockets out.” The speaker keeps his hands in his own pockets, but Grantaire will bet all the money in his bank account (more than people might think, off the few paintings he’s sold), that he has a weapon of some kind in it.

Unfortunately, small details like this have never been able to shut Grantaire’s smart mouth.

“You can’t stop and frisk in this country,” he says, smiling sweetly.

The man flanking his left side pulls a switchblade from his pocket. All armed then. _Trés bien._

“I don’t think that was a question.”

“Well done. You pass basic grammar.”

Not his best comeback but his brain is running on overdrive now, his survival instincts kicking in. Much as Grantaire is a depressed cynic, he has no desire to die. Not like this.

One man steps forward into the light. Grantaire knows this one – Bibet? Babet? Something like that.

“Very funny, R. You’ve done well for yourself. Seems only fair you should give your old schoolmate a hand.”

“I need both of them.”

Babet rolls his eyes. “Brujon.”

It all gets a bit hazy after that. He knows he broke at least one nose and gave out some black eyes. He recalls roundhouse kicking one in a sensitive area. But he comes back to himself in an ambulance.

_Well, merde._

The knife wound isn’t too bad, all things considered. It missed everything major and just hurts like a bitch. Grantaire may not have kickboxed in a number of years but it’s the kind of thing you don’t forget and he still knows how to move quick-ish if he wants to.

But it’s still a knife wound. That’s what Eponine screams at him.

“Dammit, Grantaire, you could have died! Do you have any idea what I went through when Gav called me to say ‘Grantaire went to park up and never came back’?!”

“I’m sorry?”

“ _Viens m’enculer…_ ” Eponine sat heavily in the chair by his bedside. “I’m not looking for apologies, R. I’m looking for you to be not quite so fucking blasé about it.”

Grantaire sighs. His IV itches him. The stiches are a dull ache in his side. “Where are the others?”

“Outside. Joly’s freaking out, I think Bossuet is considering hijacking an oxygen tank for him. Jehan’s comforting Courfeyrac…or it might be the other way around. I can’t actually tell.”

“Fucking finally.”

“Ha, tell me about it. Combeferre keeps asking the nurses really complicated questions and Bahorel and Feuilly just want to know who did it so they can knock their teeth out.”

Grantaire chuckles, which turns out to hurt. A lot.

Still, he loves his friends.

“What about Enjolras? Is he out there?”

“Yes.” Eponine hesitates. “He’s quiet. I mean, freakily so. Remember when that lyceé student tried to call him out on marriage equality issues and had her facts all wrong? That kind of quiet.”

Grantaire remembers that incident. Half the campus remembers that incident.

“Can’t they come in?”

“They won’t allow more than one or two at a time. I can get Courfeyrac in, or Bahorel…”

But at that moment any plans for a sweet reunion are cut short by the nurse sweeping in and declaring that “It’s time for more pain medication.”

“I’ll be back,” Eponine promises.

Grantaire feels his own knockout is imminent so he simply blows her a kiss.

His last thoughts before dropping off are _Why is_ _Enjolras wound up enough to turn up at a hospital and sit in scary silence for a guy he hates?_

He’s asleep before any coherent answer is found.

 

The next few days are uneventful, to say that least. He watches crap daytime television. His fingers itch for a pencil. His friends drift in and out around classes and work and jobs, and his frequent naps. Joly and Combeferre give him a hand in interpreting his chart, which makes for obvious if interesting reading.  Jehan reads to him from the latest anthology he’s discovered. Marius and Cosette drop by with some of Cosette’s baking, a welcome respite from hospital shit. He refuses to give Bahorel or Feuilly the names of the thugs who attacked him.

“I don’t want you guys getting hurt as well.”

“You’re not just going to let them walk, are you?”

“Look, I told the police. Let them deal with it for once. I don’t want to be responsible for landing friends in hospital. Besides, I think your mate - ” here he indicates Feuilly, leaning against the wall “ – would have something to say.”

Bahorel reluctantly admits defeat.

Courfeyrac nearly breaks down at his bedside. “Jesus, R…”

“I know. But all the doctors – even the ones in training – say I’ll be fine. Missed all the major organs and everything.”

“But still…” he sniffles.

Grantaire can do nothing but reach out and give his old friend a hug.

He sleeps a lot as well, thanks to the pain medication. And when he wakes, on one occasion, Enjolras is there, somehow managing to look ethereal even in the overbright ward lights. He’s reading, but puts the book down before Grantaire could catch the title.

“Well _bonjour_ Apollo,” he says sleepily.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras starts. “How…how are you feeling?”

“Spectacular,” he replies, and wonders when normal conversation with Enjolras became so awkward. Maybe it’s the drugs. His head still feels a bit woozy.

Frankly, he’s astonished Enjolras turned up at all. As far as Grantaire is aware, he’s not very high up on Enjolras friend list, if he’s on it at all.

“Shouldn’t you be off changing the world?” he asks.

“My classes are over for today. The meeting was yesterday. I… _we_ missed you there.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

Enjolras himself is lost for words, not a condition he’s used to. His mind keeps reverting back to the bone-deep panic he’d felt when Courfeyrac called to say that Grantaire had been knifed around the corner from Eponine’s flat. Even now, with R in front of him, being as irritating as ever, he still can’t shake the worry off. If it hadn’t been approaching exam time, he didn’t think he’d have left the hospital at all.

And R still looks so damn pale…

“Doesn’t answer the question. Why are you here for me? Didn’t think I was worth that much to you.”

“Christ, Grantaire, of course you are.”

“Why?”

“R…I…”

Enjolras wants to tell him how he feels like a better debater after an argument with the cynic. That even drunk, he is beautifully eloquent. That all his reading, the wealth of knowledge he possesses could do him so much good, no matter where he goes.

He wants to tell Grantaire that it’s a large reason he loves him.

Because _oh hell, he really does…_

But none of this comes out. Instead what he says is, “Because…well…you’re…one of us. You’re an Ami, and my friend, and…of course you matter...”

Grantaire looks at him. There’s a deep sadness in his eyes. Enjolras wonders how much the other man wants to believe him.

Abruptly he stands. “Look…get well soon. I meant it, the meetings aren’t the same without you.”

 

It looks to Grantaire as though the blonde is aching to say something else. Instead he stuffs his book back in his bag and leaves the ward.

So Grantaire doesn’t hear it when Enjolras exits the ward and viciously kicks the wall in annoyance at himself. _“Putain de merde!”_


	3. Part 3

He goes to Combeferre’s that night in an uncharacteristic fit of histrionics.

“If I can’t tell him when he’s fucking dying in a hospital bed then when can I fucking tell him?” he wails into the sofa cushions.

Combeferre is at something of a loss. Enjolras is usually very good at dealing with himself. ‘Emotionally retentive’ is the phrase Courfeyrac uses. ‘Marble statue’ is Grantaire’s. So seeing a pile of blonde activist sprawled on his couch, bemoaning his own love life is something of a phenomenon.

He’s out of his depth here. Courfeyrac, Bahorel, or Eponine would be filming this.

Fortunately, Combeferre is none of those people. Instead he makes a cup of tea, puts it near Enjolras’ head with some vaguely soothing noises and texts Jehan.

_Enjolras freaking out about romance. Help._

All credit to Jehan, he’s there within twenty minutes. Even he double takes at the sight of the prostate young man on the couch. “How long and why?”

“About half an hour. He has a crush on Grantaire he believes is unrequited and I have no idea what to do.”

Jehan beams. “Our leader, finally growing up.”

“Yeah, all over my couch. You’re better at this than me.”

Jehan pats him on the head (he has to stand on tiptoe to do so) and approaches the sofa.

“Hey, Enjolras,” he begins.

Enjolras lifts his head and glares at the two students through his tangle of curls. “Bonjour, Jehan…”

“What’s up, love?”

The blonde glares over his head at Combeferre. _Traitor_ , his gaze says. ‘Ferre simply shrugs, and retires to the kitchen.

Enjolras admits defeat.

“I may be in love with Grantaire.”

Jehan holds back a squeak for the sake of his friend. “Ok…how is this a problem?”

“Because I don’t know how to tell him!” Enjolras wails.

Jehan admits this may be a problem:  for all that Enjolras is good with words, he knows nothing of the language of love.

“You could just tell him, you know. R was never one for grand gestures.”

“I tried! I went to the hospital with this big speech planned out and everything and I couldn’t do it!” He buries his face in the cushions once again. “He hates me.”

“I’m…fairly sure he doesn’t actually.”

“What do you mean by that?” Enjolras looks up with a mixture of confusion and desperate hope in his eyes.

“I think that’s Grantaire’s tale to tell. Just ask him.”

Enjolras makes a noise that sounds a bit like a growl and props himself up on his elbows. “You can talk. When are you going to tell Courfeyrac how you feel?”

Jehan flushes. “Look...I…never mind about me and Courf. I’m here to talk about you, not me.” He sips his tea. Combeferre knows exactly how all the Amis like their tea. It’s ambrosia right now. “You want my advice, just tell him.”

The blonde groans. “But what do I say? I can’t say the right thing around him, ever. He just takes it as a veiled insult or assumes I want something from him.”

Jehan can’t argue with that. If Grantaire has one talent apart from painting and sketching, it’s twisting everything to other person says in order to suit his own dark and dreary view of himself.

“You’ll think of something.”

“Will I?”

“Yes, Enjolras. You’re the wordsmith around here. And when you find the right words, you’ll know the time is right.” He strokes Enjolras’ untameable curls comfortingly with his free hand. “They’ll come, you’ll see.”

“Mmm.” Enjolras reaches up to grasp the hand stroking his head. “Thanks, Jehan.”

“That’s quite alright, darling.” Jehan glances up to see Combeferre looking at him from out of the kitchen. He nods once. _C’est bien._

_I hope it is anyway._


	4. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last part! And only now do I realise I should probably have posted this whole story all in one go. No matter. Enjoy, and thanks for reading xxx

Grantaire returns to meetings after a couple of weeks enforced absence by Joly and Eponine. When he does return, he holds himself a little stiffly. He walks into the Musain with less of his usual light step, right in the middle of a group discussion.

“R!” the group clamours, all points and ideas forgotten as they rush to him.

“How are you feeling?”

“Has Eponine finally untied you?”

“Can I see the scar?”

“Can we _not_ see the scar, please?” Marius says instantly.

Grantaire chuckles. “Off, please, there’s plenty of me to go around. And scar viewings are by appointment only.”

“I just want to check they did the stitches right…” Joly protests weakly. Courfeyrac laughs and slings an arm around him.

“You saw it when it was done, Jol, they’ve not changed since.”

“When do they come out?” ‘Ferre wants to know.

“Another week or so. They itch like crazy.” Many noises of sympathy.

Enjolras remains where he is. He feels frozen. He’s not seen Grantaire since he visited him in hospital. He looks better now there’s more colour in his cheeks and something of a shine back in his beautiful blue eyes that the drugs had taken away.

Eyes that suddenly meet his.

“No words from our fearless leader?” Grantaire jokes. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He hates it when R’s expressions don’t reach his eyes.

Enjolras clears his throat and fumbles for something to say. “I, um…it’s good to see you again, Grantaire. It’s nice to have to you back. I…this lot have been missing you.”

Behind R, he sees Jehan roll his eyes and Combeferre give him a ‘really?’ look.

Grantaire doesn’t seem to notice. “Awfully nice of them.” But he doesn’t break Enjolras’ gaze for a few more beats.

Then he sits down in a chair. “So. What the latest crusade?”

And so it continues for a few weeks. Life in the group returns to their version of normal. And Enjolras watches Grantaire.

He laughs less, claiming it hurts the stitches. His other habits, however, are unchanged; the steadily growing forest of glasses and bottles in front of him, and his well placed barbs designed solely to get under Enjolras’ skin. It’s comforting, in a way. His Grantaire is still there, when he could so easily not have been. An inch either way and…

It doesn’t bear thinking about. It strengthens Enjolras’ resolve to do something, but every word, every opening phrase he thinks of dies in his throat, or just sounds wrong.

He feels like Hamlet, forever hovering between action and passivity. He knows Jehan is watching, and probably Courfeyrac and Combeferre as well. For some reason he feels like he’s let them down.

He has no idea what to do.

They’re back at marriage equality this week. The debate has reached the French Congress and, in a group where a high proportion of the members are decidedly not heteronormative, the excitement is palpable. Jehan is flowerier than usual, from where he’s holding Courfeyrac’s hand under the table. Courfeyrac himself could have bounced his way out of a concrete cave. Enjolras himself is fierier than usual.

“We have to keep up the pressure,” he says. “If we slack off now it’s like an open invitation for them to throw it out.”

“Should we increase our presence on campus?” asks Bossuet. “There’s that big demonstration happening in a few days.”

“Can’t hurt,” Combeferre agrees. The rest begin pitching in ideas. It is only then that Enjolras notices that Grantaire has been quiet, content to sit in his corner and nurse his drink.

Enjolras’ feet carry him over there without his permission.

“No sarcastic interruptions today, Grantaire?” he asks, sliding into the seat opposite him.

The art student glanced up. “I figured you were fine without them.”

“That’s not like you.”

Grantaire smiled thinly. “You’re finally on the verge of achieving something. I’m just sitting here quietly being happy for you.”

It’s a lie. This is not Grantaire looking happy. Enjolras tells him so.

Grantaire almost looks flattered. “I didn’t know you were paying so much attention.”

“When you’re happy it’s hard not to pay attention to you. You’re so loud.”

Grantaire smiles again, a little wider this time, and takes a long draught from his drink. It still doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Look…”Enjolras becoming unsure of himself around Grantaire is starting to get annoying. “Come and join in with the rest. You have as much right to be celebrating as the rest.” Grantaire had come out to them years ago.

R chuckles. “Well since I’m never planning on getting married, it’s rather redundant, isn’t it?”

“We ought to have the choice,” Enjolras returns.

“And well may you exercise it,” answers the dark-haired young man, taking another swig of beer. “It’s a bullshit institution anyway.”

“Of course you’d think that,” says Enjolras quietly.

“And of course you wouldn’t.”

“It’s a celebration of love.”

“And never just about the tax breaks, or to take advantage of someone’s income. Or an unexpected pregnancy. And of course every couple stays together forever.”

Enjolras can’t deny that stings somewhat. He knows Grantaire’s parents had separated when he was still quite young. From what he’s heard, they can’t even manage to be civil to one another while in the same room. His own parents aren’t exactly a shining beacon of marital bliss either.

The café has quietened somewhat. The Amis know not to interrupt Enjolras and Grantaire in the middle of an argument, or discussion, or whatever they’re calling it this week, but it doesn’t mean they can resist listening in.

“It’s another step towards equality,” he persists.

Grantaire snorts. “Alright, Mr Revolution. Lead your troops on into battle. I shall just sit here and drink.”

Enjolras finally loses patience. “Grantaire, if all you intend to do is spread cynicism and discord, why are you here?”

The whole group falls silent. He thinks he hears Joly, or possibly Bossuet murmuring “Shit…”

The tension suddenly snapping into place could have been cut with a butterknife. Enjolras knows he’s said the wrong thing, but there’s no taking it back now.

Grantaire laughs. “Why am I here? Why the fuck am I here? I’ve been sitting here, with your little bands of activists for two years, and not once have you asked me that.” His voice rises. “I mean, it’s pointless asking any of the others, isn’t it? We all know why they’re here, deluded though the lot of them may be. But me? The odd one out, the fly in the ointment. You haven’t even thought about me, have you? Just wished me gone.”

He’s on his feet by now. Enjolras just stares at him, stricken.

“You really want to know, Apollo? You really want to know why I’m here?” His voice cracks.

Enjolras feels as though his voice comes from a long way away. “Yes.”

When Grantaire next speaks, his voice is surprisingly steady.

“You. You, you ignorant bastard. I believe in nothing you say, but I believe in you. Because I love you.”

And with that he turns and runs out of the Musain.

Enjolras sits there, unable to move. The whole café seems frozen with shock.

Then something slaps him around the head. He looks up to see Eponine.

“Go after him,” she says, “Or so help me God, I will end you.” She’s deadly serious.

It’s all Enjolras needs to pull him out of his paralysis. He gets up and sprints after Grantaire.

 

He’s not gone far. He’s only halfway down the street. Enjolras catches his arm, spins him around.

He registers the naked pain in Grantaire’s eyes, along with the beginnings of tears.

“You mean that?” he asks, breathless.

“Mean what?”

“Holy shit, R. About…about me.”

Grantaire looks like he’s about to choke. “Of course I fucking meant it, you moron.”

Enjolras feels like it’s Christmas, though he realises laughing gleefully might not be the best option at this point. Instead he says. “Good. Because I’d rather like to kiss you right now.”

Grantaire blinks. Once. Twice. He blinks out a tear that was already on the verge of falling. Enjolras’ stomach seems to drop with it, before Grantaire says, “Ok then.”

So Enjolras take a deep breath, grabs Grantaire’s face and leans in.

It’s brief, chaste and hopelessly inexperienced but somehow also perfect.

When they pull apart, they’re both smiling.

“How long?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras pauses, unsure of how much to tell him. “Are you going to hold it against me if I say ‘I don’t know’?”

Grantaire snorts. “Nah. We all know you’re a marble statue. Feelings are funny things.”

Enjolras shoves him lightly but he’s still smiling. “I was going to tell you. When you were in the hospital. I had this beautiful speech and everything, but you just looked…I don’t know. It didn’t feel right.”

Grantaire says nothing, just shakes his head and pulls the blonde forward again.  Enjolras goes willingly. His hands find the cynic’s waist to anchor him against his body. He tastes salt as his mouth meets Grantaire’s, but he can also taste his smile. 

 

Just outside the Musian, Courfeyrac is filming this one. Jehan looks like he’s torn between knocking the camera out of his hands to give them some privacy and giddy laughter. Eponine looks relieved and worried all at once. Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly and Bahorel simply watch. Everybody’s too pre-occupied with the make-out session down the street to notice the last two are holding hands. Marius is taking the opportunity to make out with Cosette. Again, nobody is paying attention.

Combeferre re-enters the café. Not that he isn’t deliriously happy for them too, but after all that, he needs a fucking drink. 


End file.
